


First Kisses

by LSilvertongue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, first kiss series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 07:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2221008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LSilvertongue/pseuds/LSilvertongue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the many ways John Watson and Sherlock Holmes may kiss for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

To this day, John could never quite recall how it happened. One second, they were standing there, staring at the door Sherlock had just ordered Mary out of, the next...  
  
Did he reach forward, or did Sherlock? He thinks he himself must have done. Sherlock... Sherlock is many things, good and bad, but he'd never kiss his flatmate just after he'd broken up with his wife.  
  
... the next, they were kissing. It was sloppy, uncoordinated for the first few moments - John remembers thinking of Janine and then dismissing the thought, concentrating on stepping closer, placing one hand on Sherlock's shoulder, the other reaching up to hesitantly run through those magnificent curls.  
  
Sherlock's hands fluttered indecisively, before settling for John's shoulders; he tilted his head just slightly more, and John remembers kissing him sweetly for another few moments, before - reluctantly - pushing Sherlock back.  
  
He looked bemused. "John," He tried, voice cracking, then cleared his throat, and attempted again. "John..." But that seemed to be it.  
  
"We'd been over for months, Sherlock. And... I've wanted this for years. But right now, Mary's probably plotting with Moriarty, and I... I have a flat to move back into. If you'll allow me."  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be an idiot, John. Of course I'll allow you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr - http://johnlocked-on-the-doctor.tumblr.com/post/96110942330/first-kiss-series


	2. Chapter 2

_**-JW** _

It wasn’t exactly the most auspicious circumstances. Just the realisation that my mood was invariably tied to how long it had been since I’d last seen Sherlock, and the omnipresent attraction that I’d still not managed to get over.   
  
And, damn it all, I did not want to be married to a woman who shot my Sherlock. I couldn’t do anything immediately about the marriage - but I didn’t have to live with her.   
  
"Sherlock?" I was sure he knew what had happened, had been predicting it, even. The bag I carried was far larger than normal - not that it really mattered when most of my possessions were in 221b already.   
  
But no, he wasn’t in. Of course. The flat still held the same alien familiarity that it did with him in; it was my home, always would be, and yet I had moved out, technically lived elsewhere. Sherlock was the sole tenant. I just popped in for sleepovers.   
  
But the kettle still boiled and there was still no milk, the remote was still wedged down the side of the sofa where it lived. I still had to dodge experiments on the kitchen table and breathe through my mouth to avoid the smells. My armchair was still here.   
  
I’d switched on the TV, hoping to find something either mindless enough or interesting enough to take my attention away from the mess my life had become. But nothing helped, and so I switched it back off again - there was a gesture I was used to, TV on, TV off - and just sat, and thought.   
  
Maybe it wasn’t so surprising that I fell asleep, despite the early afternoon light slanting in through the windows, curled up on the lumpy sofa and relishing in being home.   
  
_**-**_

The next thing I was aware of was the thuds of footsteps on the stairs, and then a crash, and then - Sherlock. He was stood in the doorway, looking… well, like a man who had just discovered someone sleeping on his sofa.  
  
We regarded each other silently for a few moments, and then he turned, towards the kitchen. If I knew anything about Sherlock Holmes - and I knew a lot - it was that he would assume I wanted tea.  
  
"What’s the time?" My voice was quiet, sleep-muddled. I wondered how long I’d been here; it was dark in the flat, although night hadn’t fallen completely, so several hours, at least.   
  
"Just past eight. When did you arrive?" We were being unnecessarily formal, just proving that something was amiss. Sherlock no longer looked surprised, he didn’t even look particularly angry. Just quietly curious, and forever calm.   
  
"Oh God. Um, about two. I’ve been asleep for hours."  
  
With the kettle full and boiling, He turned to face me, leaning back against the counter and smiling. The silence stretched on, both of us just looking at each other, and I allowed myself to properly admire him; the steadiness of his eyes, the beginning of a smile around his mouth.   
  
When he turned back round to make the tea, I spoke. “I have a bag.” I said, quietly. “Of my stuff. Most of it’s here anyway, but… I brought the rest.” A heavy sigh. He was still; his only movements were gently prodding the tea bags. “I’m moving back in, Sherlock. If that’s okay.”  
  
He didn’t visibly react, but his voice was warm when he spoke. “Moving back in? John, I don’t remember you moving out.”  
  
I laughed, and he turned to face me, holding out the tea and not hiding his smile. “There’s no-“  
  
"Milk, I know." I finished, smiling ruefully. "Is there ever?"   
  
Sherlock insisted on helping my carry my stuff up to my bedroom, God knows why. And then he insisted on fetching sheets and a duvet cover, telling me to ‘rest my leg’ and begin unpacking. I sighed, but obliged, adding the last pieces of clothing to the mostly-full drawers. The bedroom was barely even dusty - probably not Sherlock, but still… it just reinforced the feeling that I hadn’t left.   
  
He returned upstairs shortly after, bearing a pile of familiar-smelling sheets. It was simple, and domestic, and…  
  
Watching Sherlock stuff pillows into pillowcases, I felt my throat tighten, a sudden, unexpected happiness sweeping through me. This… this was the best situation I could be in right now. Back in Baker Street, officially away from Mary, Sherlock welcoming me back with open arms.  
  
I might have sighed a little too loudly, because he glanced up, curious, and met my gaze. “Are you alright?” He asked me, as quietly as I’d first asked him the time.   
  
I half-smiled. “Yeah. Just happy.” He nodded, and glanced away, seeming to hesitate over something. “You can ask about what happened. I mean, if you want to.”   
  
That appeared to be the right thing to say. “Mary?” He asked.  
  
I hesitated over my response. “Not someone I should have married.” I said simply. He was smoothing the covers now, making the bed with the kind of careful ease I’d really never expected from him. His bed had always been neatly made on the very rare occasions that I had seen it, but I suppose I had never thought about how it got made. Mrs Hudson certainly wouldn’t have done it for him. “I… want to apologise, Sherlock.” He sat down on the bed, heavily, suddenly looking worried. “After you came back… God, you did so much for me. And she-“  
  
I wasn’t even sure what I was saying. I wasn’t about to voice the half-theories I had, the ones I was certain were more hope than fact - the ones that said Sherlock had done those things for me because-  
  
It sounded ridiculous even in my head. I shook my head, letting the sentence trail off.   
  
"Did you have an argument?" I could hear the unspoken question behind that - was I going back? Was I here because I needed a place to crash until we made up?  
  
"Not as such, no," I forced a laugh. "I realised 221b made me happy, and my house with her - didn’t." I sobered, my smile sliding away. "I’m not going back, if that’s what you’re wondering. It wasn’t one argument so much as many, many, one after another."  
  
He sat down on the bed, smile suddenly brighter, and I stood - my leg protesting at me kneeling for too long - and joined him. There was an awkward pause - so remeniscent of the first few weeks we spent together, after the high of solving the case wore off and the practicalities sunk in. “Chinese?” He asked, and I looked up, smiled, nodded.   
  
"Yeah, sure. I’ll just-" I gestured around the room, and he stood. "Order my usual?"   
  
Once he’d pattered downstairs - so he was back to dashing around everywhere like a madman then, good to know being shot hadn’t affected that - I leaned back on my hands, surveying the small room. Sometimes, when the limp got bad again and I was stuggling to walk, let alone climb stairs - because as psychosomatic as it was, it hurt like bloody hell - I’d considered asking Sherlock to swap. I never had, of course.   
  
I emerged sometime later, and there was only time for a few sentences of strained small talk - how was Harry (not so good) any new cases (none I didn’t know about already) - before the food arrived, and talking died down in favour of eating. Sherlock ate as he always had - I couldn’t resist watching; knowing if he didn’t finish the box I’d needle him until he did, and sneak extra sugar and milk into his tea.  
  
He could be such an idiot when it came to looking after himself, and in me absence it didn’t appear that he’d got any better at treating himself well.  
  
The next time I glanced up, he was staring at me, slumped so he was nearly lying down, half-full takeaway carton threatening to fall off his lap. “Sherlock?” I asked, and he blinked in surprise before straightening up and regarding me solemnly.   
  
"John."   
  
I hid a smile, and dropped my empty carton to the floor, leaning back and stretching. I watched as he attempted to sit up, then grimaced in sympathy when he winced, and dropped back down again.   
  
"Still painful?" I asked him, sitting up myself and collecting the takeaway boxes, stacking them onto the coffee table. I’d move them into the kitchen later.   
  
He nodded. “Only occasionally, though.”   
  
I smiled fondly. “We match now, I guess.” He looked confused, and I indicated my shoulder, then moved forward so I was kneeling by the sofa. “Can I see?” I asked. ” I want to know how it’s healing.”  
  
He didn’t respond, just looked at me with wide gray eyes, then frowned, torn. “If I can see yours.”  
  
I hadn’t expected that. There had been shirtless occasions before - stumbling in when one of us was half-dressed, baking hot days one summer when shirts were just too much, mornings when cases meant that if I wanted breakfast, I had to be as fast as possible. But he’d never stared, for which I was grateful.   
  
"Yes."  
  
He rolled over slightly, so he could push himself up, rather than straining himself again, then shimmied off his jacket, and hesitated, fingers on his shirt buttons. Deciding that this was going to be awkward and we should get it out of the way if this was genuinely happening, I followed suit, pulling off my jumper, and then t-shirt: by the time I’d pulled my head free, he was shirtless too.   
  
We regarded each other for a few minutes, while I tried to remember that I was interested in the bullet wound for purely medical reasons, and therefore I shouldn’t let my eyes wander, and also pretty much failed to do so.   
  
"Yours is neater," I said, and my voice was quieter than I had intended. I cleared my throat and continued. "I guess real hospitals are better than half trained emergency medics."  
  
It was true. The bullet shattering, the resulting (botched) surgery, infection and so many other factors had left me with a sizeable crater in my shoulder, messy and rugged and ugly. Sherlock’s, by comparison, was smaller, neater, and had healed well. The medical side of me was satisfied. The rest of me was appalled that I’d caused this to happen.  
  
"Aesthetically, maybe. Somehow I think a wound gained when you were risking your life to save others will always be… less ugly than one gained from a betrayal of someone you trust." He grimaced. "Sorry."   
  
I shook my head. “No, you’re…” Something about the situation - everything about the situation - struck me as unbearably sad. “Sherlock, I am so, so sorry for everything I put you through.” I reached out automatically to comfort him, one hand on his arm, before remembering our shirtless state and that just maybe, we were sitting too close already. “I… you should never have been shot. None of this should have happened.”  
  
He raised an eyebrow. “John Watson, you are an idiot. In the best way possible. Did you forget the two years in which I let you believe I was dead?”  
  
I swallowed. “Yeah, but you had to - look, we’re not fighting over who was worse to who.”   
  
"Because I would win." His eyes were soft, head now resting on the armrest of the sofa, at the same level as mine, smiling with more than just his mouth. My hand still rested on his arm, and with a boldness I didn’t know I possessed, I slid it down, past his elbow…  
  
I took his hand in mine, and the look on his face when I glanced up again told me everything I needed to know.   
  
I kissed him. Not violently or passionately or hastily, just the slow, soft press of my lips to his. It was short, sweet. “You have no idea how long I have wanted to do that for,” I murmured.   
  
He’d frozen in shock - I was forcibly reminded of when I’d asked him to be my best man, and tried not to panic - but mumbled back, “Nor how long I have wanted to do that to you.”  
  
I smiled; I even began laughing, just little giggles of happiness and relief. I rested my forehead on his, and then he kissed me this time, lips stretched up in a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr - http://johnlocked-on-the-doctor.tumblr.com/post/96452659945/first-kiss-series


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock stood, talking to Hermione Granger. 

_It would be her, wouldn't it,_  John grumbled to himself, looking up from the letter he was clutching,  _the two greatest minds of the year, of the school even, thoroughly absorbed in whatever they were talking about_. Her cheeks were pink -  _from the fire, naturally_ , he snickered, and he was certain that she stood a little too close for comfort. Sherlock, with his complete lack of knowledge about personal space, hadn't noticed.

"Don't be ridiculous-" drifted towards him. Hermione looked shocked - John was by now so used to Sherlock's cutting way of talking that he forgot how surprising it really was.

With that thought putting a slight smile back on his face, he focussed on the letter he held.

He didn't come from a wizarding background, and he was so taken in by the sights and sounds and spells that the first summer he came home - he'd not gone home for Christmas his first year, irrationally worried that Hogwarts would disappear if he let it - he barely noticed his sister's sullenness and disparaging talk. By the end of his second year, it was clear that Harry resented his talent, as his parents referred to it, and now, halfway through his fourth year, she barely spoke to him.

And this. A short, scrawled note in response to a fourteen and a half inch letter from him.

"Harriet's fine, John." Sherlock threw himself onto the armchair John was in, so that they were squashed together. If it wasn't normal practice for him - Sherlock's personal space issues at their finest - John might have leapt up, or shoved him off amid protestations.

As it was, his heart merely stepped up to a gallop and he tried to speak evenly. "Oh yes?" The sarcasm was lost on his friend, and he sighed, stowing the note away in his robes. If anyone could deduce the state of a person from their brother and a note they'd not even looked at, it would be Sherlock. "How was your chat with Hermione?" He inquired, trying to keep the tone of his voice reasonable.

"Oh, tedious. Less so than usual, I must admit. She had something useful to say rather than blathering" Sherlock was  _warm_  - half of his body was up against John's and with the fire his own cheeks were pinking up. _I can't blame Granger, really._

"I sometimes wonder how I hold your interest, if the brightest witch we know fails to." He got no response, Sherlock was now leaning back, staring at the ceiling with steepled fingers.

He glanced around the common room. When Sherlock had first appeared here, there had been so much staring and whispering - a Ravenclaw in the Gryffindor common room? What the hell? And John hadn't let him in, either - no, he'd only gone and  _deduced_  the password. Now it was normal. The first years had stared for a bit, but they were fourth years themselves and with John built like a Quidditch Beater and Sherlock with a reputation for being utterly unattainable, no one protested.

Minutes passed, and the common room gradually emptied. It was Sunday night, and John knew he should probably get to bed if he didn't want to be a wreck in Potions first thing tomorrow, but he didn't want to move. Sherlock was... comfy.

"Come to the owlery with me?" It wasn't really a request, but John liked to pretend he had a choice.

"It's half eleven, Sherlock." He grumbled. "It's warm here and we got the  _best_   _armchair_."

"Could be dangerous." Sherlock turned his large whatever-colour-they-were eyes on John, and God he probably knew exactly how appealing that looked.

"Dangerous? It's the owlery." But he lumbered to his feet, ignoring Sherlock's triumphant smile, and they slipped out of the common room, making their way through the darkened corridors.

John was freezing before long. Hogwarts always managed to be cold at night, even in midsummer, and the contrast between the balmy heat on the common room (with fire and people and Sherlock all heating it up) and a stone corridor in November was almost painful.

Sherlock muttered something under his breath, and John felt the shivers instantly recede, the effects of a heating spell making themselves known. "Who do you need to send a letter to, anyway?" He asked. "Couldn't it have waited till tomorrow?"

Sherlock turned and slowed slightly, allowing John to catch up. "You remember Lestrade was talking to me about that robbery in the Ravenclaw dormitory?" John nodded, although to be honest he couldn't. Lestrade, a sixth year with his sights on head boyship, was always talking to Sherlock, and John often lost track of what about. Usually something regarding misdemeanors to be punished. "Well Granger said that some Slytherin third year was bragging about getting a load of money for working out the Ravenclaw password for people."

"I suppose Slytherins are supposed to be clever too," John mused, secretly thrilled by the knowledge that Sherlock had only been talking to Hermione to get information from. "If anyone was going to work out riddles to rob it would be one of them. Why does that mean you have to send a letter?" Sherlock shot John a look that even in the darkness was obviously exasperated. 

"If we talk to him, we can find out who wanted access to the dormitory. They won't be in charge, of course. We just need to see who  _they_  all have in common - he will be the ringleader."

John nodded. "Or she. Why the letter now?"

"Obvious. If we owl him during the day, he'll be around people - he will just destroy the letter quickly so no one sees or is curious. But now, he'll probably be in bed - if we catch him alone, then he's more likely to respond, you see."

They hurried up the steps to the owlery. John was faintly surprised that they hadn't encountered any teachers - it was past curfew - but not particularly worried. Sherlock had displayed a talent of wriggling out of trouble numerous times now.

"Wish  _I_  was in bed, y'know."

Sherlock chuckled, and glanced around at the almost empty room. Most of the owls would be out hunting by now, John thought to himself. Teach Sherlock to try and be clever. He ambled over to the window, gazing out at the mood-clad grounds. 

But Sherlock whistled and one swooped down, hooting softly. "It's Mycroft's," he explained. "Which is so used to being used at night for his various purposes that it is always here." John had no idea what these purposes might be. Something political, he guessed, whether it was Hogwarts's complex status ladder or 'minor' ministry work. "Plus," Sherlock added with a grin. "I know for a fact that Mycroft wants to use him later and he'll know I borrowed Anthea."

John laughed. "You're so childish, you know that?"

The owl swooped out of the window, air rushing past his face, and they watched it go for a moment, before it was swallowed up by the darkness. Sherlock's fingers settled on the nape of his neck, making him jump - and then lean slightly into the surprisingly warm touch. "What would I do without you?" He murmured, probably more to himself than to John.

"Be all alone at midnight in the owlery?" John joked, responding anyway and coaxing a rare laugh out of Sherlock.

"Yes, I suppose." John felt, rather than heard, Sherlock step closer towards him, and tentatively, he leaned backwards, resting his head on the taller boy's shoulder. This was far more intimate a pose than sitting in the same armchair; John's breath caught and he turned his body slightly, his head tilting up towards Sherlock.

He caught the barest glimpse of Sherlock's smile, just visible in the dim light of the moon, before he kissed him - and then, oh...

Sherlock had always stood to one side as John dated. He'd had plenty of offers (not in the same way as John, never from people who knew him. His blatant and unrepentant rudeness erased even the strongest attraction) but never taken any. It was hard to decide what was more surprising - the thought of Sherlock kissing, or the thought of Sherlock kissing  _him_.

He reached up (it was embarrassing that he was on his bloody tiptoes, that hadn't happened with even the tallest girl he'd dated) and tugged one hand through Sherlock's curls.

Sherlock smiled against John's lips - which felt a little odd but certainly not bad - and then leaned back. "The hair, John, really?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr - http://johnlocked-on-the-doctor.tumblr.com/post/96903722220/first-kiss-series


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks to Ariane DeVere for her transcripts  ~~because as ever I was woefully out with the dialogue~~

You can find them [here](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/)

* * *

If there is one thing Sherlock can do, it is deduce.

And while deduction is not fortune telling, it is certainly true to say that his estimates as to what the future holds are more accurate than most. As Sherlock Holmes sits opposite John Watson, in a small cafe in London on their first night as flatmates, he can see their futures stretching out, shifting and changing as they talk.

John is eating, Sherlock is not; a pattern that it's reasonable to assume will continue. He makes another mental note, adjusts the future unfurling in his mind a little. Mealtimes may be interesting; he remembers that John is a doctor and tweaks it again, including potential arguments over eating into their life. "You don't have a girlfriend then?"

The question is unexpected.

Not excessively so: a flatmate would be curious, Sherlock supposes. He's already discounted the possibility of John being in a relationship - the need for a flatmate is telling, and it's confirmed by the lack of texts to anyone throughout the day. All the same, it's still unexpected.

He changes their future again, a little more drastically this time; girlfriends of John's are on the cards, it seems. He wonders briefly how long it will take John to get sick of Sherlock, find someone more tolerable, and move out. Not long, probably, but then maybe that doesn't matter so much. He accepted John's unspoken offer of a flatshare on a whim - it's painfully obvious that it isn't for financial reasons - and it's unlikely to be long lasting. He includes nights spent out on dates and round partners' houses, and then tries to include mornings after and breakfasts with them. He sighs internally, changing the forecast reluctantly.

Hopefully, if they're friendly - and they undoubtably will be - then they'll also be moderately intelligent and somewhat bearable.

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area," He eventually says, trying to sum up  _actually, I'm gay_  and  _I'm not really interested in anything right now_  and  _or ever, probably_  in something noncommital and meaningless.

"Mm." John's reaction is interesting, and the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips is...

Oh.

The future in his head tries to assert itself, attempting to change, and he resists it. The Work comes before that path and has for years now. He's not going to stop just because of a good-looking army doctor.

"Oh, right. D'you have a boyfriend?"

Sherlock was never embedded in queer culture, neither proud nor ashamed of his sexuality. He is what he is; he likes men, albeit only rarely, and it's about as interesting a fact about his as the fact that he prefers digestives over Hobnobs.

"Which is fine, by the way."

So why is he pleased by  _that addition_? When people reveal a hitherto unseen nasty streak and begin denouncing the rest of the world, Sherlock tends to leave with a cutting remark - or more often, silence - and forgets about them, moving on without a care.

Somehow, John approving of this part of Sherlock suddenly matters, and he lets the future shift, tentatively including more than just a friendly flatshare.

"I... know it's fine."

Sherlock hadn't meant to sound so final, but old habits die hard and the future springs back to where it had been before, girlfriends included. It takes Sherlock a few irritated seconds to realise that John appears unfazed by this, taking a bite of whatever dish he'd ordered and keeping his gaze on Sherlock.

"So you've got a boyfriend then?" And Sherlock supposes that if he could be said to like biscuits over Hobnobs, maybe John does too.

It splits. Sherlock can quite distinctly predict two different ways in which the next few minutes will go; in one, he does what he should, what he always does, he turns John down. He's kinder than he might normally be, given that John is the most  _interesting_  person to hit on him for some time, but he puts a stop to this. In the other...

"Not at the moment, no." He moves his gaze from the window, where he had been watching for the suspect, and holds John's. A smile - quick, genuine - and his eyes flicker across Sherlock's face admiringly.

"Ah." John looks amused, voice neutral and yet somehow still flirtatious. "Planning on changing that?"

Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly, and leans forward. "Maybe. Why?"

John grins down at his pasta (one of the most endearing things he's seen in quite some time) and then looks back up to respond. "Just curious."

Sherlock smiles. He's curious, too. "What about yourself?"

But then, he catches sight of what he's been looking for all evening; a taxi cab pulls up before the building they're staking out, and even John's appealing gaze can't hold him. He jumps up, racing in pursuit, and it isn't until much, much later, with an orange blanket around his shoulders, that he gives in and kisses John, who responds perfectly - enthusiastically, happily, and maybe a little fearfully - but perfectly. One hand fisted in his coat, the other curled at the nape of his neck, and he's hooked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr - http://johnlocked-on-the-doctor.tumblr.com/post/100675443485/first-kiss-series


	5. Chapter 5

I laugh, place the chocolate in my mouth, stare at John. Like this, he's incandescent, hair bright and gold in the sunlight, lazily flipping through his phone with one hand, eyes flickering up periodically to meet mine, make a response, crinkle his smile a little wider.

He's being rude about Anderson, again, and I really should care that he's doing what he always criticises me for, but I don't. Even the snippiest words come out golden on his tongue; the affection I feel for him is rising through my stomach, pressing against my diaphragm, rendering me breathless. I can't think, can't talk, can only stare and smile and remember to breathe (although often barely that).

The impulse just to say it - to blurt 'I love you' in some cheesy rom com moment - is strong, and I nearly give in. He's too beautiful, too precisely perfect... I can't fault my infatuation with him. 

He laughs, flaps a hand in my face. "Sherlock, stop deducing," he instructs me around a mouthful of laughter. "Sherlock, stop!"

I wasn't deducing, not this time, but I grin and look away, teasing him as though I were. He swats me, hands gentle under the disguise of roughness, and I refocus on my book, smiling at he pages. The sun is warm on my back and I can feel his gaze on me, heating my skin up further; I glance up to catch him in the act of staring and he is doing so unabashedly. Gold hair, gold skin, blue eyes, white smile.  "Looking at something?" I ask archly - it's something I've learned off him, asking a question to convey a completely different one - _I know you're staring. Why?_

He leans forward, places one warm hand on my back. The skin burns beneath my t-shirt, but the sensation is lost beneath the sight of him kneeling beside me.

It's an odd pose.

I don't mind.

"You," he states, simply. "I guess." He doesn't answer the question in my voice out loud. And so then, I start deducing. 

 _Because I like to look at you,_ is the answer, even if I reject it initially, disbelieving.

I vocalise my doubt. "Why?" My face is tilted towards his, he's slouched forward to bring himself closer to my level; we're a hand's breadth apart and every nerve in my body is singing. 

He smiles wider, if that's possible. "You're nice to look at."

My breath catches. "John..." My voice comes out a whisper. I don't think I have the capacity to speak any louder, that swell of affection has unlodged from my diaphragm, is curving around my voice box, quelling my words. 

You don't need a voice for kissing, I remind myself, as John continues to watch me. I wait for him to move, eyes unwavering from his bright, bright blue ones, but he just kneels there, gazing, one hand on my back. 

And then I understand - stupid, stupid of me to have taken this long - it's my turn. He's bared himself enough in this dance of words and feelings, now I have to. Neither of us can make this leap alone, we've skirted around it too long. "So when I stare, I'm deducing," I say, voice constricted. "When you stare, you're...?"

He swallows, and I take that as sign enough. 

I kneel up; he mimics the movement and straightens, so we're facing each other. I'm above him, of course; it doesn't matter. I lean down and he rises up. We meet in the middle, a perfect compromise.  He eventually regains the ability to speak, but it takes several moments of observation before that's the case. "When I stare," he begins shakily, "I'm... admiring." 

And it's back to the kissing. 


End file.
